The night is choked with black taloned ravens and blood curdling screams
Like the screams of my tormented soul dark and barren
The pathetic laughter of stupid and naive babies can't escape the nothingness
When I walk down the black lane, alone and bleeding
Casting my clever eyes around at the fools around me
They can never know the depths of my pain and sorrow.
I put on my Naruto t-shirt like a devil spawn
Laughing at the smiling idiots who dance the sheep two step
"Poor fools" I smurk, "they can not see their own absurdity"
Why must the earth be sick with their shallow desires?
Alone, I see their sunken eyes, holding hopelessly to
Rapidly fading memories of the only time they ever had a unique thought.
Aeschylus and Loki gather in the midnight rain
Cursing Zeus and Hamurabi's code
(can it be that their pale hands shake like my mine?)
Slaves to their own tiny lives like ants drowning in syrup
I alone crawl from this burning wreckage,
Using my feelers to navigate the excrement
Like some kind of unimaginable man who turns into a bug.
The girl-who-is-not-quite-my-girlfriend (she says she loves me)
Weeps into a paper cup and I drink down the cold sweet nectar,
"Apes!" I laugh, scolding the lonely uneducated child.
She does not belong here, nor anywhere else,
On this stupid anthill, the cold dying Earth
Where I am the sole survivor among the flames
The Impeachment Testimony of William S. Clinton to Parliament Funkadelic
"Who be I?
A mystery guy?
One seldom seen among the ranks?"
"An interloafer or a jester,
one set upon mean dirty pranks!"
"A howling mine of golden bars, true
Topped with dirt and slime..."
"Unreasonably proportioned, you
Bulimic vomiter of rhyme!"
"My gifts sometimes inspire fear
(Not a small thought to thank)
So often be it when I rear
If I am to be frank...
But who be I?
And be I known?
Be my secrets all
Unfurled?
Or be they safe,
in another tome,
Where I've hid them
Safely squirreled?
(If one could know
Just half the things
Unknown in this dark world,
I'm sure that I'd be terrified
And foetally be curled.)
But who be I to guess at things
Of which you've only dreamt?
(If Hilary could see me now,
with wild hair unkempt!)
Fully erect, I have come
Perhaps I should have limped
But who be I if I be not
The kind of guy who pimped?"
@oro, you know there's only one entry per contest, right? Post the second one next round. :).
A/N: Been writing random crap, mainly fixing tenses on old stuff because I'm irresponsible. We'll see how far I get there, but for now, here:
my age
As
Clueless
As I am,
I still spew out
a torrent of words,[5]
like similes or like
metaphors, diarrhea
of the mouth slicks and renders what
our singular thoughts deny about
the origins of the species: restless [10]
winds take my muse and swallow it whole, and the
whims of countless chittering gossips ruin fond
apprehensions about the whole idea of writing,
about what I do and am, and what I become and am,
and if maybe this rattling on unsupervised is merely [15]
another ploy to create the wishes I cannot realize
without being seen and admired, or is it merely seen? Though I
think I am a savior I can be a plague: the wind rattles furious
at my pretensions, the epiphany of thought offended with my seeming
forthrightness. And there is building, always, a gathering storm on the horizon, [20]
but at the last I leave my wings and use the machines to fly. There is so much deceit.
We lie on our birth certificates and lie on our gravestones, we lie during casual and
formal conversations, for what do we know? And all I hope for is to tell the truth. I wish.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
What if... what if men get pregnant
and women start growing beards?
That would shake your head upside down
Certainly.
I tore apart my soul into shreds
then left some pieces to be scattered by the wind
In a distant land, will someone find
patterns in the heaps, emotions into scraps?
I am starting to dissociate -
disconnecting the fibers, my marionettes
swallowing an obscene amount of cigarettes
quelling any possible solution, in resolution.
My goal is to advocate this conundrum
exponentially increasing frivolous sentences
growing fungi into sapient sentiences
I am not a mad man
Neither a poet
I am the devil's pet
Full of idiocy
A bad example to the masses.
I am in here.
With my eyes round like saucers and my head flat like same, I am a projection.
With my knowledge spilling out and my wakefulness falling down, I am procrastination.
And though I want to be cool, I would rather be
clever.
We could have two titles and alternate. We could get into a lilting refrain for love. Love tends to be a real crowd-pleaser.
Love tends to disintegrate. Watch the sentences spiral and burst with strain. English isn't quite beautiful, is it.
You cut something out of the diet, it is always too much, and you are never full.
Such a harsh sound, when you know who and why I am, and you can dismiss me with a puff,
because all I am is myself, and all I care about is same,
and how I seem oh-so-
______
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
the black slick of the night sky paints a picture of ugliness overall, our love.
We are the star and the other(5): my perspiring for another
is disgusting in its nakedness.
Words surround me in obfuscation.
There is nothing I cannot make farther away(4),
though I want(3) to be closer.
But to be close is to be ugly, and I need to be perfect(2):
letting the night's embrace envelop me like a costume,
no vestige of the self escaping(1).
1: Save this.
2: Or at least to pretend to be perfect.
3: Desperately! Like a rat in a maze wants cheese. Like a starving man wants food, a drowning man wants air, but to be drowned by my own choice ...
4: Including you.
5: Or I am both, and you are nothing but mere conception, a dream within a dream: one I will never have.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
The Nostalgia of the Infinite To Jennifer, Mary, Jenny, Mom: Giorgio de Chirico
She was the life of the wedding,
though she wasn’t the one engaged.
Her hair, the color autumn, carried itself
as she entered with the gait of a flapper,
dressed in white, an overcoat, and a suit
complementing her curves.
Her bangs covered an eye, exposing
the other—an erotic, plucked, brow
which complemented her iris, the color
of autumn where the season had passed.
When she smiled, she showed
her breath (sweet) and her teeth (pure).
She was genuine and seen
as a free bird the sun would follow—
someone the girls dreamed they were.
She believed in true love, even though
she was in her 40s, who
once was an underwear model, who,
twice, had been divorced, and who—
three times—reported assault
on each of her past four “lovers”.
She dreams of a soul mate, and forgets
the age of her daughters or when
they were born, never missing them much.
She dreamt of warm weather somewhere
in a city, engaged in romantic bliss—
things far from here, far from that day.
And I remembered then, when she arrived—
smiling—communing with the other guests
conversing on beauty (happiness), gossiping
truth—the groom’s folly, the bride’s stepping stone.
And I remembered then, looking past her
to see The Nostalgia of the Infinite—
the tower standing in the city with no people, the winds
blowing foreign flags (the green sky), the two figures waiting
on the open empty, standing close, never reaching, casting shadows
to the vacant expanse, stretching, yet, touching only the void (desolate)—
forever and ever—echoing (pensive) in Dali’s Dreams On A Beach, in wounded memory
(who will remember you, Giorgio de Chirico?) and words lorn, ideas still felt
by old widows and resigned children (ambition’s lost), the testament of patience
when death would corrode, undo all (us apart)—the names, beliefs of things
forgotten, but were always nothing (an edgeless zephyr)—until only a recollection of
a place remains where dreams could come to quietly die—
Private Words with Mammon; Of Pan, Midas and the Missing Moon
I approached him, knelt before him, hoping that subservience might aid me in my futile quest. But despair sharpened my breath regardless. ‘Demon, fool, has all the glitter finally blinded you? I tire of this arrangement, for my soul is dangling precariously - neither yours nor any of the others - but mine alone at risk of being thrown so far away.’
‘Your soul is mine for all of time – as safe as any other treasure I’ve considered dear to me.’
‘But I do not understand the risks of dabbling in Greek magick. I know it is not apparent to only me - Midas and I are all you need! – so why the hassle of Pan and his madness? I beg you, Mammon, master, tell me this.’
‘King Midas belongs to Pan, as you belong to me. Were you not eavesdropping when our pact was made? Your grave was laid, but you were saved, yet still I find you questioning your everlords' authority. I see with starkest clarity, unlike the cloudy skies of which you worship – your stars do not blind me, nor fog confound me, nor constellations bind me to a life of fruitless lust for something absent from ascent. Has it occurred to you, ghost, nothingness incarnate, that Pan is as much a threat to me as a mite in the mortar – no wooden heart exists for such a pest to ever harvest. Do not bring these false concerns to my throne, for I know you, and I see you, and the Devil resides deep in you. I beg you pray to your Moon, wherever she may be, for I will never keep Pan from her, and he’s likely to reach her before you’ve even left the castle gates. She is gone because of you – and for that you are dead, a specter – yet you think you can protect her from a God whose mind is made?’
I clenched my fists so tightly that the whitened knuckles flickered; they vanished for a moment, leaving me a partial thing. ‘Your words enrage me, demon, there is human left in me! I love her – hear me? – love her!; such is power you will never come to know. You are even less than me, a lesson from the Bible, a myth to frighten children and to sober petty thieves. I laugh at greed and avarice; I cackle as a crow to the sight of a demon hoarding trinkets, a dragon within his mountaintop hole – the Devil’s finest jest, indeed, is this demon right before me! I pity you – I truly do!’
His whisper reminded me of a million woken bats now flapping about a cave. ‘It is unfortunate that dying did not bring you just an ounce of modesty. Your life of hubris, for what then, worm? To die face down in the mud, clawing at the heels of a woman scorned? Is this your ego speaking to me as such, or is it your own, shadow-shy madness, the same you think of the faun? Your jealousy of Pan is destroying you, ghost. You have already lost yourself – will I lose you, too? Your thoughts are elsewhere, even now, your entire being blinking as an eye of the astral... I fear that if you do not calm you’ll burst to dew at come of dawn.’
‘Spare me your compassion, Mammon; if any good was holed in you, you’d have left me at the tree to weep my seeds about her shattered pieces.’
‘I tire of your antics, spider. You’ve found by now that I’ve no windows left to open, no other side to grasp at, no view unto your vengeance – you must master Pan yourself.’
‘Fine! As you say, as you wish, whatever you babble, I’ve listened. But when your master tires of you, we know together that you will share death with me, for you are to him what I am to you – nil – and when your gold is stolen and your palace pillaged, when women still flock to me in the heavens; your forgotten, richless ghost will still haunt this place alone.’
‘Please be gone, before I yawn.’ He smiled, shooed me from his chamber – yet something in him stunk of anger.
I paused at the black ash doorway. ‘I bring them to you, Midas goldens them for you, the souls you snare yourself. All the while lazy Pan is busy doing nothing for our missive. He is framing other gods of his realm, slaying and killing and manipulating. Bribing and blackmailing – earning their ire. He is trying to hide this all beneath Hippolytus, but I am no doppelganger and two instances of the same event will not go unnoticed forever.’ I paused. ‘Your Devil is an infant to them, of that I am sure – what will we do when they tire of Pan? Will we perish in their thunder?’
I left him then.
His voice rang out, ‘They are statues and tablets. We are paper and pen. Trust me for once that they’re more frightened of us then we have ever been nor will ever be of them.’
The final word would not be his to claim, so I returned, with pride to find my voice was strong, although my heart was lame. ‘I will not burn for Pan, Mammon.’
‘You are safe with me, phantom.’ That smile again, that awful grin. ‘Pans’ pilgrimage, his nymph-hunt, is your only hope of ever again taking her in clutch. That you are considering dismissing him is folly. This is true testament to your madness, if not your stupidity. You are stepping to lunacy, all for Luna, while your greatest rival is out fighting for her survival. Now remove yourself from me, and compose yourself for you. I’ve nothing left to say.’
In springtime when the world is Shangri-La
And all the waste of winter disappears
Rejoice and revel at this time of year
It is the time for beer and sakuras!
The wind will beat from petals soft applause
That Hails the burgeoning halcyon spring
Days in terminus now sweet and fleeting.
So go! and drink your beer and sakuras.
Fall deeply into your red Dixie cups
And let the green brimming grass stain your pants
As you contemplate the pink elephant's
Lazy parade weaving through baby buds
That say goodbye too soon...but there's always
The memory of beer and sakuras.
The body of a hero, guided by the skies
makes selfless actions through and through.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
Ridding mind of pain and fear, a hero always tries
through timeless scars, shades black and blue
the body of a hero, guided by the skies.
Heroes may push through crimson clouds and metal flies
through all nature, to life anew.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
Of young and old, black and white, of all religious ties
one may just look and find in you
the body of a hero, guided by the skies.
For a hero can be one that tells no lies
or shows all their love, and shares it too.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
Yet to be a hero, have honor one seldom buys
know first, both peace and war entomb
the body of a hero, guided by the skies.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
When silence is another name for the infinite
and violence, a single breath, is just a predicate—
(what is a word?) a word that forgets meaning
when the so-called undying gives away—
lets the air snuff the flame, a weak wisp, a rasp
when the heart gives its last, the final pull—
the mind, ceasing to ponder whatever ends
for when I am dead, when quiet is all I breathe—
wholeness, if it is a state, will be my condition
without riddles of holes, or torn flesh, or grief
or heartache gripping the chest, with my hands
together, hiding neither blade nor magnum
as I lay in bed, not rolling—no struggle—my hair
untouched by therapy, free of any sacks of useless
flesh clumping, clogging the organs when I depart
greeting death, my equal, my patience immortal.
1.
I watch rabbits as they jump and multiply in twos,
and all they make me think is that I'd really like to screw,
or even, possibly,
attain a withered harmony,
to bluff this certain tragedy
to taking leave from me?
2.
I am a frozen mass of feeling,
stuck in dreams of just myself ... and screaming.
3.
Have you felt the pain of a limb being ripped away. The neurons fire and reload. It is a 21-gun salute to the upper limits, an Everest in the making, wild mountains growing higher as you climb them and suddenly you are unprepared - where is the oxygen mask? Why would you need one walking up a hill? How stupid can you be, not having your oxygen mask for walking up hills?
We are more fragile than we think.
4.
The sun is shining bright and clean,
the flowered meadows sprayed with incesticide.
We are too rich.
The shadow of our other merges with the space around it, through its difference, to become unidentifiable.
I disagree with my ethos. But, if I were to be true to it, and to myself, then I could have the greatest gift of all: to be.
5.
She was a rainbow in my storm. Rainbows don't survive in storms.
They break and flee, invariably.
6.
And storms, regretting all the ruckus, clear the sky with glee.
6.
And after storms exhaust themselves, leaving just the morning dew,
all their makers can think of is the storms that they outgrew.
Regretting that they were once weak-kneed,
the love turned into greed,
and with actions doubtlessly
attuned to
empty the sky with glee.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
deeds pounded by nails.. good or bad
hammered and smashed through the lost of thy land
come forth a dusk till we see the night..
as darkness befalls we shall see no light
as shiny as the meadow creeks
is the sword that empowers the meek
as strong as the rock on the mountain cliffs
are the shield that protects the fallen and the weak
in this field of blood covered in carcass..
thou shall not kill is written by this bloody hands
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
A team should be as happy as a meal - TEAM HAPPYMEAL
EDH - UWGrand Arbiter Agustin IV UBW Oloro, Ageless Ascetic Modern - Mono U tron / Polymorph / NFTW (ninja for the win)GR tronGR
Buy All the planeswalkers!!!
Buy All the Dual Lands!!!
Buy All the fetches!
Create tons of EDH Decks!!!
Eat Nothing but Oats!! (LOL, not true)
Train MMA!!!
Marry My girlfriend!!!
Get her Pregnant only Once!
Teach my Son/Daughter Sports and magic cards!!!
Continue my legacy son!!!/Daughter!!
I wrote this while my mother was sick with cancer (she passed away 5/13/08).
Of War and Cancer
War begins and ends with
Devastation. Internally and
Externally creating futures
With no cures. Like when
Tumors turn to time bombs
Placing families on the frontline.
Where when even all is exhumed
The future remains entombed, and
Our passions are declined.
My mother has handed me
A ring. She tells me I should have it
Before her gold collection is melted.
It is of an antique mer-goat
And I’m the only Capricorn
In the family. But to me it seems too
Sudden – too soon.
In my nightmares of reality
Death approaches, his watch broken.
As a phantom flame he appears
Emanating darkness in a sphere
Like a candles glow, but black
Sucking light right from the air.
Then I awake to face my fate
To question where I’ll be left, when
I have no one to make proud, and
No one to prove wrong. Perhaps
I too will be dead, when
All I love is gone.
By: Gregory Stephen Jones II
I believe most of it is fairly straightforward, though the "exhumed" line is referring to when the initial cancer was removed, but by then it had already spread. Any war parallel with that line may be different for each reader, but to put it into today's perspective, we can get rid of Osama, but that doesn't fix the problem (why I decided to go with a war parallel in the poem is beyond me now, but it made sense to me when I wrote it ;))
Like the screams of my tormented soul dark and barren
The pathetic laughter of stupid and naive babies can't escape the nothingness
When I walk down the black lane, alone and bleeding
Casting my clever eyes around at the fools around me
They can never know the depths of my pain and sorrow.
I put on my Naruto t-shirt like a devil spawn
Laughing at the smiling idiots who dance the sheep two step
"Poor fools" I smurk, "they can not see their own absurdity"
Why must the earth be sick with their shallow desires?
Alone, I see their sunken eyes, holding hopelessly to
Rapidly fading memories of the only time they ever had a unique thought.
Aeschylus and Loki gather in the midnight rain
Cursing Zeus and Hamurabi's code
(can it be that their pale hands shake like my mine?)
Slaves to their own tiny lives like ants drowning in syrup
I alone crawl from this burning wreckage,
Using my feelers to navigate the excrement
Like some kind of unimaginable man who turns into a bug.
The girl-who-is-not-quite-my-girlfriend (she says she loves me)
Weeps into a paper cup and I drink down the cold sweet nectar,
"Apes!" I laugh, scolding the lonely uneducated child.
She does not belong here, nor anywhere else,
On this stupid anthill, the cold dying Earth
Where I am the sole survivor among the flames
http://www.ilike.com/artist/oro_oro_oro
"Who be I?
A mystery guy?
One seldom seen among the ranks?"
"An interloafer or a jester,
one set upon mean dirty pranks!"
"A howling mine of golden bars, true
Topped with dirt and slime..."
"Unreasonably proportioned, you
Bulimic vomiter of rhyme!"
"My gifts sometimes inspire fear
(Not a small thought to thank)
So often be it when I rear
If I am to be frank...
But who be I?
And be I known?
Be my secrets all
Unfurled?
Or be they safe,
in another tome,
Where I've hid them
Safely squirreled?
(If one could know
Just half the things
Unknown in this dark world,
I'm sure that I'd be terrified
And foetally be curled.)
But who be I to guess at things
Of which you've only dreamt?
(If Hilary could see me now,
with wild hair unkempt!)
Fully erect, I have come
Perhaps I should have limped
But who be I if I be not
The kind of guy who pimped?"
http://www.ilike.com/artist/oro_oro_oro
A/N: Been writing random crap, mainly fixing tenses on old stuff because I'm irresponsible. We'll see how far I get there, but for now, here:
my age
As
Clueless
As I am,
I still spew out
a torrent of words,[5]
like similes or like
metaphors, diarrhea
of the mouth slicks and renders what
our singular thoughts deny about
the origins of the species: restless [10]
winds take my muse and swallow it whole, and the
whims of countless chittering gossips ruin fond
apprehensions about the whole idea of writing,
about what I do and am, and what I become and am,
and if maybe this rattling on unsupervised is merely [15]
another ploy to create the wishes I cannot realize
without being seen and admired, or is it merely seen? Though I
think I am a savior I can be a plague: the wind rattles furious
at my pretensions, the epiphany of thought offended with my seeming
forthrightness. And there is building, always, a gathering storm on the horizon, [20]
but at the last I leave my wings and use the machines to fly. There is so much deceit.
We lie on our birth certificates and lie on our gravestones, we lie during casual and
formal conversations, for what do we know? And all I hope for is to tell the truth. I wish.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
What if... what if men get pregnant
and women start growing beards?
That would shake your head upside down
Certainly.
I tore apart my soul into shreds
then left some pieces to be scattered by the wind
In a distant land, will someone find
patterns in the heaps, emotions into scraps?
I am starting to dissociate -
disconnecting the fibers, my marionettes
swallowing an obscene amount of cigarettes
quelling any possible solution, in resolution.
My goal is to advocate this conundrum
exponentially increasing frivolous sentences
growing fungi into sapient sentiences
I am not a mad man
Neither a poet
I am the devil's pet
Full of idiocy
A bad example to the masses.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
White magic graceful
As the angels who wield it
Dispensing order
Green magic brings life
Massive beasts devoted elves
Truly nature's reign
Blue magic decieves
Creates things airborne with wind
Master of the mind
Red magic kindles
Inspires and blazes souls
The warmth of the hearth
Black magic corrupts
Enslaving the few righteous
Power is the key
oro_oro_oro's "The Impeachment Testimony of William S. Clinton to Parliament Funkadelic" will be entered next round.
I am in here.
With my eyes round like saucers and my head flat like same, I am a projection.
With my knowledge spilling out and my wakefulness falling down, I am procrastination.
And though I want to be cool, I would rather be
clever.
We could have two titles and alternate. We could get into a lilting refrain for love. Love tends to be a real crowd-pleaser.
Love tends to disintegrate. Watch the sentences spiral and burst with strain. English isn't quite beautiful, is it.
You cut something out of the diet, it is always too much, and you are never full.
Such a harsh sound, when you know who and why I am, and you can dismiss me with a puff,
because all I am is myself, and all I care about is same,
and how I seem oh-so-
______
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
011010010110111001100110011101010111010001110101
011100100110010101100100011000010111100101110011
011010010110110001101100011001000111001001101111
011100000110110101111001011100000110010101101110
011101000110111101101110011001010111011001100101
011100100111011101110010011010010111010001100101
011011100110111101110010011100110111000001100101
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011011100110111001101111011100100110010101100001
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011011110110111001100101011001010110010001100110
011011110111001001110100011010000110010101110100
011011110110111001100111011101010110010101100110
011011110111001001101001011000010110110101110100
011010000110010101101110011011110111010001101000
011010010110111001100111011000010110111001100100
011100110110100001100101011010010111001101110100
0110100001100101011011110110111001100101
A daft glance to twitching fingers,
Shuffle shuffle shake roll roll.
Recall the way the memory lingers,
Fantasy abound in my mind.
A smile cracks to a perfect pull,
Envy saturates the room like fog.
Whispers make keen ears full,
Luck was not my lady today.
A stipulation with trepidation,
Clashing of arms and force.
Only one instance of vindication,
Leaves blow over the remains.
A win garnished by luck indeed,
Soldiers aligned perfectly that day.
Nourishment from the soul we feed,
Victory leaves no regret.
the black slick of the night sky paints a picture of ugliness overall, our love.
We are the star and the other(5): my perspiring for another
is disgusting in its nakedness.
Words surround me in obfuscation.
There is nothing I cannot make farther away(4),
though I want(3) to be closer.
But to be close is to be ugly, and I need to be perfect(2):
letting the night's embrace envelop me like a costume,
no vestige of the self escaping(1).
1: Save this.
2: Or at least to pretend to be perfect.
3: Desperately! Like a rat in a maze wants cheese. Like a starving man wants food, a drowning man wants air, but to be drowned by my own choice ...
4: Including you.
5: Or I am both, and you are nothing but mere conception, a dream within a dream: one I will never have.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
They wanted to meet gods
so they worked endlessly
building higher
until finally
they accomplished their goal.
A tower, reaching the clouds
they had it at last
endless stairs reaching higher
they climbed, and climbed.
The gods were enraged
they sent crashing earth
the tower toppled,
it was doomed at birth.
The men were devastaded
all of their work,
was now rubble
and endless dust.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
To Jennifer, Mary, Jenny, Mom: Giorgio de Chirico
She was the life of the wedding,
though she wasn’t the one engaged.
Her hair, the color autumn, carried itself
as she entered with the gait of a flapper,
dressed in white, an overcoat, and a suit
complementing her curves.
Her bangs covered an eye, exposing
the other—an erotic, plucked, brow
which complemented her iris, the color
of autumn where the season had passed.
When she smiled, she showed
her breath (sweet) and her teeth (pure).
She was genuine and seen
as a free bird the sun would follow—
someone the girls dreamed they were.
She believed in true love, even though
she was in her 40s, who
once was an underwear model, who,
twice, had been divorced, and who—
three times—reported assault
on each of her past four “lovers”.
She dreams of a soul mate, and forgets
the age of her daughters or when
they were born, never missing them much.
She dreamt of warm weather somewhere
in a city, engaged in romantic bliss—
things far from here, far from that day.
And I remembered then, when she arrived—
smiling—communing with the other guests
conversing on beauty (happiness), gossiping
truth—the groom’s folly, the bride’s stepping stone.
And I remembered then, looking past her
to see The Nostalgia of the Infinite—
the tower standing in the city with no people, the winds
blowing foreign flags (the green sky), the two figures waiting
on the open empty, standing close, never reaching, casting shadows
to the vacant expanse, stretching, yet, touching only the void (desolate)—
forever and ever—echoing (pensive) in Dali’s Dreams On A Beach, in wounded memory
(who will remember you, Giorgio de Chirico?) and words lorn, ideas still felt
by old widows and resigned children (ambition’s lost), the testament of patience
when death would corrode, undo all (us apart)—the names, beliefs of things
forgotten, but were always nothing (an edgeless zephyr)—until only a recollection of
a place remains where dreams could come to quietly die—
I approached him, knelt before him, hoping that subservience might aid me in my futile quest. But despair sharpened my breath regardless. ‘Demon, fool, has all the glitter finally blinded you? I tire of this arrangement, for my soul is dangling precariously - neither yours nor any of the others - but mine alone at risk of being thrown so far away.’
‘Your soul is mine for all of time – as safe as any other treasure I’ve considered dear to me.’
‘But I do not understand the risks of dabbling in Greek magick. I know it is not apparent to only me - Midas and I are all you need! – so why the hassle of Pan and his madness? I beg you, Mammon, master, tell me this.’
‘King Midas belongs to Pan, as you belong to me. Were you not eavesdropping when our pact was made? Your grave was laid, but you were saved, yet still I find you questioning your everlords' authority. I see with starkest clarity, unlike the cloudy skies of which you worship – your stars do not blind me, nor fog confound me, nor constellations bind me to a life of fruitless lust for something absent from ascent. Has it occurred to you, ghost, nothingness incarnate, that Pan is as much a threat to me as a mite in the mortar – no wooden heart exists for such a pest to ever harvest. Do not bring these false concerns to my throne, for I know you, and I see you, and the Devil resides deep in you. I beg you pray to your Moon, wherever she may be, for I will never keep Pan from her, and he’s likely to reach her before you’ve even left the castle gates. She is gone because of you – and for that you are dead, a specter – yet you think you can protect her from a God whose mind is made?’
I clenched my fists so tightly that the whitened knuckles flickered; they vanished for a moment, leaving me a partial thing. ‘Your words enrage me, demon, there is human left in me! I love her – hear me? – love her!; such is power you will never come to know. You are even less than me, a lesson from the Bible, a myth to frighten children and to sober petty thieves. I laugh at greed and avarice; I cackle as a crow to the sight of a demon hoarding trinkets, a dragon within his mountaintop hole – the Devil’s finest jest, indeed, is this demon right before me! I pity you – I truly do!’
His whisper reminded me of a million woken bats now flapping about a cave. ‘It is unfortunate that dying did not bring you just an ounce of modesty. Your life of hubris, for what then, worm? To die face down in the mud, clawing at the heels of a woman scorned? Is this your ego speaking to me as such, or is it your own, shadow-shy madness, the same you think of the faun? Your jealousy of Pan is destroying you, ghost. You have already lost yourself – will I lose you, too? Your thoughts are elsewhere, even now, your entire being blinking as an eye of the astral... I fear that if you do not calm you’ll burst to dew at come of dawn.’
‘Spare me your compassion, Mammon; if any good was holed in you, you’d have left me at the tree to weep my seeds about her shattered pieces.’
‘I tire of your antics, spider. You’ve found by now that I’ve no windows left to open, no other side to grasp at, no view unto your vengeance – you must master Pan yourself.’
‘Fine! As you say, as you wish, whatever you babble, I’ve listened. But when your master tires of you, we know together that you will share death with me, for you are to him what I am to you – nil – and when your gold is stolen and your palace pillaged, when women still flock to me in the heavens; your forgotten, richless ghost will still haunt this place alone.’
‘Please be gone, before I yawn.’ He smiled, shooed me from his chamber – yet something in him stunk of anger.
I paused at the black ash doorway. ‘I bring them to you, Midas goldens them for you, the souls you snare yourself. All the while lazy Pan is busy doing nothing for our missive. He is framing other gods of his realm, slaying and killing and manipulating. Bribing and blackmailing – earning their ire. He is trying to hide this all beneath Hippolytus, but I am no doppelganger and two instances of the same event will not go unnoticed forever.’ I paused. ‘Your Devil is an infant to them, of that I am sure – what will we do when they tire of Pan? Will we perish in their thunder?’
I left him then.
His voice rang out, ‘They are statues and tablets. We are paper and pen. Trust me for once that they’re more frightened of us then we have ever been nor will ever be of them.’
The final word would not be his to claim, so I returned, with pride to find my voice was strong, although my heart was lame. ‘I will not burn for Pan, Mammon.’
‘You are safe with me, phantom.’ That smile again, that awful grin. ‘Pans’ pilgrimage, his nymph-hunt, is your only hope of ever again taking her in clutch. That you are considering dismissing him is folly. This is true testament to your madness, if not your stupidity. You are stepping to lunacy, all for Luna, while your greatest rival is out fighting for her survival. Now remove yourself from me, and compose yourself for you. I’ve nothing left to say.’
This time I left him true.
And all the waste of winter disappears
Rejoice and revel at this time of year
It is the time for beer and sakuras!
The wind will beat from petals soft applause
That Hails the burgeoning halcyon spring
Days in terminus now sweet and fleeting.
So go! and drink your beer and sakuras.
Fall deeply into your red Dixie cups
And let the green brimming grass stain your pants
As you contemplate the pink elephant's
Lazy parade weaving through baby buds
That say goodbye too soon...but there's always
The memory of beer and sakuras.
Hero
The body of a hero, guided by the skies
makes selfless actions through and through.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
Ridding mind of pain and fear, a hero always tries
through timeless scars, shades black and blue
the body of a hero, guided by the skies.
Heroes may push through crimson clouds and metal flies
through all nature, to life anew.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
Of young and old, black and white, of all religious ties
one may just look and find in you
the body of a hero, guided by the skies.
For a hero can be one that tells no lies
or shows all their love, and shares it too.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
Yet to be a hero, have honor one seldom buys
know first, both peace and war entomb
the body of a hero, guided by the skies.
For heroes pass away, and honor never dies.
By: Gregory Stephen Jones II
When silence is another name for the infinite
and violence, a single breath, is just a predicate—
(what is a word?) a word that forgets meaning
when the so-called undying gives away—
lets the air snuff the flame, a weak wisp, a rasp
when the heart gives its last, the final pull—
the mind, ceasing to ponder whatever ends
for when I am dead, when quiet is all I breathe—
wholeness, if it is a state, will be my condition
without riddles of holes, or torn flesh, or grief
or heartache gripping the chest, with my hands
together, hiding neither blade nor magnum
as I lay in bed, not rolling—no struggle—my hair
untouched by therapy, free of any sacks of useless
flesh clumping, clogging the organs when I depart
greeting death, my equal, my patience immortal.
I present to you:
"Osama is Dead!"
In the crowds they celebrate the death,
Of the man they used to fear.
A terrorist, a mastermind,
a man of many names
called hero by some,
by most, a demon.
An attempted arrest,
thats what they all say
all I know is
he won't get a grave.
Hes a bastard, I know
put yourself in his mindset
a corrupted young boy
who was just unlucky.
His father had 52 children
Osama was unimportant,
he was forgetted by many
but not for much longer.
"Osama is dead!" They root and they cheer,
but they had a much better life,
than he.
I will put it in spoiler tags in case anyone gets offended.
I am not forgiving Osama for his acts. I will never do so, I know he is evil. I just wrote this poem as a different perspective.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
forbidden
1.
I watch rabbits as they jump and multiply in twos,
and all they make me think is that I'd really like to screw,
or even, possibly,
attain a withered harmony,
to bluff this certain tragedy
to taking leave from me?
2.
I am a frozen mass of feeling,
stuck in dreams of just myself ... and screaming.
3.
Have you felt the pain of a limb being ripped away. The neurons fire and reload. It is a 21-gun salute to the upper limits, an Everest in the making, wild mountains growing higher as you climb them and suddenly you are unprepared - where is the oxygen mask? Why would you need one walking up a hill? How stupid can you be, not having your oxygen mask for walking up hills?
We are more fragile than we think.
4.
The sun is shining bright and clean,
the flowered meadows sprayed with incesticide.
We are too rich.
The shadow of our other merges with the space around it, through its difference, to become unidentifiable.
I disagree with my ethos. But, if I were to be true to it, and to myself, then I could have the greatest gift of all: to be.
5.
She was a rainbow in my storm. Rainbows don't survive in storms.
They break and flee, invariably.
6.
And storms, regretting all the ruckus, clear the sky with glee.
6.
And after storms exhaust themselves, leaving just the morning dew,
all their makers can think of is the storms that they outgrew.
Regretting that they were once weak-kneed,
the love turned into greed,
and with actions doubtlessly
attuned to
empty the sky with glee.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
hammered and smashed through the lost of thy land
come forth a dusk till we see the night..
as darkness befalls we shall see no light
as shiny as the meadow creeks
is the sword that empowers the meek
as strong as the rock on the mountain cliffs
are the shield that protects the fallen and the weak
in this field of blood covered in carcass..
thou shall not kill is written by this bloody hands
EDH - UWGrand Arbiter Agustin IV
UBW Oloro, Ageless Ascetic
Modern - Mono U tron / Polymorph / NFTW (ninja for the win)GR tron GR
Buy All the Dual Lands!!!
Buy All the fetches!
Create tons of EDH Decks!!!
Eat Nothing but Oats!! (LOL, not true)
Train MMA!!!
Marry My girlfriend!!!
Get her Pregnant only Once!
Teach my Son/Daughter Sports and magic cards!!!
Continue my legacy son!!!/Daughter!!
Of War and Cancer
War begins and ends with
Devastation. Internally and
Externally creating futures
With no cures. Like when
Tumors turn to time bombs
Placing families on the frontline.
Where when even all is exhumed
The future remains entombed, and
Our passions are declined.
My mother has handed me
A ring. She tells me I should have it
Before her gold collection is melted.
It is of an antique mer-goat
And I’m the only Capricorn
In the family. But to me it seems too
Sudden – too soon.
In my nightmares of reality
Death approaches, his watch broken.
As a phantom flame he appears
Emanating darkness in a sphere
Like a candles glow, but black
Sucking light right from the air.
Then I awake to face my fate
To question where I’ll be left, when
I have no one to make proud, and
No one to prove wrong. Perhaps
I too will be dead, when
All I love is gone.
By: Gregory Stephen Jones II
I believe most of it is fairly straightforward, though the "exhumed" line is referring to when the initial cancer was removed, but by then it had already spread. Any war parallel with that line may be different for each reader, but to put it into today's perspective, we can get rid of Osama, but that doesn't fix the problem (why I decided to go with a war parallel in the poem is beyond me now, but it made sense to me when I wrote it ;))
Your gaze was obscenely glowing,
Searching wise, yet never knowing
Why or when the wind stopped blowing
From the hillsides of Wyoming.
"Surely, still, the Earth is turning,
Causing gusts to bustle, churning
All its dust?" you asked with yearning.
"Is its core still primly burning?"
"Why," I claimed, "should it keep spinning?
Why allow the world its sinning?
Only stasis stays their grinning
And prevents their spite from winning!"
"But," your words began replying,
"Will not too their good be dying?
Why prevent their hearts from trying?"
And with that, you started crying.
As I lifted your face, bursting,
In my eyes, you saw a thirsting
Later described as the worst thing
You had seen of any cursed being:
There you witnessed thoughts oppressing,
And in blinks, they were confessing
"I have none to call a blessing;
That is why the Earth's regressing."
Dearest,
inert yet never still,
always moving, never the same
ashen faced rainbow
drifting by
sometimes so clear
always a mystery
unplanned
dearest,
unfathomed
unreal
misplaced socks
unwritten melodies
misty tasting moonshine
musical men
fantastic creatures
magical sunsets
sexual, fearsome
inspiring, terrifying
happiest times
worst times
unnatural wants
unchained melodies
dearest,
all in my mind
while I lay my head down
in the darkness and silence
of the night so ancient